Recalibrating
by Fandumb
Summary: Shepard is having difficulty coming to grips with the stresses of her mission. Between battling the Collectors and the inevitable return of the Reapers, her mind does its best to cope, hopefully with the help of a particular crew member.


One of the first things Shepard had to get used to in the Alliance was the sound of ships. Earth was rife with sprawling urban landscapes, noises of every description, and the scurrying of creatures far too populated to be anything but urban-fed. By contrast, ships were quiet creatures. The only difference was the level of noise. On Earth, the colorful blasts of noise that would ring out in a quiet hour, and rest silently for the rest of the night.

Ships made little noise as they operated, but they carried with them a steady, comfortable hum. Anyone whose been on a ship a week either snaps, or acclimates to it. Shepard had long since lost the noise across many journeys aboard two different Normandies. That is, until that night. Space may have mirrored the disquieting darkness of Earth's night, but held infinite more terrors there than just the threat of gangs and guns. Somewhere in the vast emptiness, Reapers lay in wait. Despite having been a commander for many years, Shepard couldn't keep the shiver from threatening her cool. The shiver that danced down her spine confirmed as much.

She shook it off, and trudged into the elevator. As the motor hummed quietly, noise just as grating to her ears as the ships engines. Perhaps it was just the disquieting nerves from the coming mission, but she felt very ill-at-ease today. Which is why she had selected the third floor of the Normandy SR2. While it wasn't much of a large ship, there were plenty of faces to stop and speak with while passing time. Joker could do most of the piloting without her input, so that left a lot of time to touch base with her crew. Though she wasn't much for hiding her feelings, she didn't really approach the fact that she enjoyed the company of some crew members more than others.

Space provided a different setting than Earth for a different reason, too. The scheduling was done entirely by volition. Some of the crew kept a specific date and time in mind for when to be awake, and when to sleep. For the most part, though, there was always some foot traffic in the various corridors because everyone ate, slept, and woke at different times. Across the board, every schedule was different. What felt like 4 A.M. to Shepard was clearly various crew members' mid-day. She tried not to glower at anyone who greeted her with too much cheer. For a brief moment, she wondered if the Mess Sergeant had acquired any coffee.

The viewports in Starboard Observation held cold, endless space. Shepard glanced outside, and it dragged another shudder down her spine. She tried to ignore it, in favor of the aged Asari in front of her. The discussion was enlightening, as was most conversations with her crew. The topic was an Asari defect, which could lead to copious amounts of death. Shepard couldn't shake the phantom haunting of the reapers out in the endless sea of stars – or the haze of blues, purples, and reds that accompany any FTL travel – but she forced it from her mind. The Justicar seemed to be void of expression for a moment, maybe flashing something somber, and shook her head. "That's enough for now. I must return to my meditations."

Shepard spoke reflexively. "I should go."

She turned, and began toward the cryo-pods. If no one else on the ship, Shepard longed for this one in particular. Her stomach, though knotted for fears unknown already, fluttered even more erratically as she listened to the piercing, ceaseless drone of the engines took their toll her on psyche. The Normandy wasn't exactly a long ship, but Shepard's mind spent more than enough time planning, replanning, and repeating endlessly.

"_This hurts you." The voice had been soulless, lifeless, and sent dragging claws of fear down Shepard's spine. Years of drill after drill managed to cut through that fear, churning Shepard's legs with the sort of speed and fluidity that came with too much practice. She slid, joints of her armor flexing uncomfortably against the legs, and then crushing into her back. The shipping crate pinged and buzzed violently, shuddering with the impact of so many bullets. The Collectors weren't exactly the most comfortable creatures on the eyes, and the glowing one spoke in smoke-wreathed death. She turned, and immediately unleashed a torrent of fire from her assault weapon. Mass effect fields spit from the gun at high velocity, spewing round and round down-range._

_The Harbinger, glowing eerily in the early morning sun of Horizon, turned all four eyes toward Shepard. Fear paralyzed her for a split second, long enough for the Harbinger to speak. "You may kill this one, but a hundred more will follow." Its hand warped reality, sending it floating gently toward Shepard. She shook herself out of her fear, finally, and immediately found cover. The too-gentle tear in reality seemed to splash gently on the shipping crate, and the world in front of Shepard detonated. The crate shook so violently, Shepard stumbled back from her perch. Bullets immediately starting hammering into her Kinetic Barriers._

_Her savior's voice was warbled. Either from the static her Kinetic Barriers were spilling, or the natural inclination of the Turian voicebox, she couldn't tell. "Covering fire!"_

_She dropped into the dust, partially to clear the alien's line of fire, and partially because her shields were torn apart and her suit was riddled with several bulletholes. Blue tracers tore from behind her, hammering into the shields of the Collectors ahead. Before they could get their bearings and find cover, a loud blast warped the air behind her. She could barely make out "Firing a high impact shot, Commander!" before an explosion tore the Harbinger apart._

_Her heart immediately regulated, and she couldn't help but feel a little bit safer for it. Garrus helped her up, and she couldn't help but stare longer than what was strictly necessary. Perhaps it wasn't just Krogan women who found facial scars attractive._

Shepard shook her head, and dragged her thoughts out of the past. The Collectors had gotten into her head, and she wasn't likely to drudge herself out of it any time soon. Worse still, they were just the sideshow. The Reapers were the real threat, and far larger, stronger, and more vicious for the effort. Shepard swallowed another shudder, and hoped beyond hope that Garrus would have some good news for her. The door to the main battery open, and Shepard's heart jammed into her throat.

"Need something, Commander?"

Her heart beat raced, and she decided that now – more than ever – she needed to tell Garrus how she really felt. The warm red glow bathed her through her clothing, and she felt a cold sweat breaking out. Now or never, she told herself, now or never. "Have you got a minute?"

Garrus hesitated, frowning. Shepard thought she saw something there, but if she did, it was gone faster than she could make sense of it. Garrus glanced briefly over his shoulder. "Can it wait for a bit? I'm in the middle of some calibrations."

Her heart lurched, "Talk to you later, Garrus."

"I'll be here if you need me."

"No," Shepard muttered bitterly as she retreated from the closed door, "you weren't."


End file.
